


Lost Time

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Because Pittcon Has Severely Wounded If Not Killed My Sanity, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Naked Cuddling, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Supernatural, Some angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, after the show, they're so in love it's ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "You know what happened, don't you?"Misha's not really paying attention to anything except Jensen's warm, naked body pressed against his. So the "Hmm?" that spills from his lips is merely a substitute for the words escaping him. Words that can’t do justice to how at peace he feels in this moment, in a world polluted with corruption and chaos.





	Lost Time

"You know what happened, don't you?"

Misha's not really paying attention to anything except Jensen's warm, naked body pressed against his. So the "Hmm?" that spills from his lips is merely a substitute for the words escaping him. Words that can’t do justice to how at peace he feels in this moment, in a world polluted with corruption and chaos.

Jensen traces new topography lines on Misha's chest to correspond with the map he wrote on Jensen's heart nine years ago—every day finding a way to pave a new route; every day having to draw new lines. They’re lines created by smaller, but equally significant moments.

Moments like PaleyFest in 2018, celebrating the upcoming success of the cartoon/live-action hybrid that is Scoobynatural. Child-like wonder is the only way to describe it. The marvel. The awe. Jensen witnessed the expansion of Misha’s world by ten-thousand—all three of them, counting his eyes.

(Jensen knew he was just the green scattered about in them, but even that was humbling enough.)

More than that, Jensen was surprised how natural Misha’s hand on his arm was. Despite his grip severing relations between his blood and his veins, Misha’s touch felt like a birthright. Jensen felt… _something._

"I messed with you because I knew you had a crush on me.” Jensen’s thumb moves like a windshield wiper across Misha’s right breast. Not that there’s any water in his line of vision. The sweat and water from their previous activities already dried, leaving a sticky sheen across their tanned lengths and the taste of saltwater on their tongues. “But the more I messed with you, the more I realized I was doing it because I had a crush on you too."

“It’s like I’ve said,” Misha replies with a smile, sliding his hand over the blindfolded jaybird draped across Jensen’s bicep: “We learn from our kids every day.”

“What do you mean?”

Jensen’s propped up on Misha’s chest now. Misha loves him like this. His shining green eyes. His freckles scattered across his nose like drops of sunlight—only, he’s impervious to any real harm from the sun because he shines brighter. His cheeks lightly flushed. His salty and sour breath pungent but warming and combing the hairs on his chest all the same.

But none of that is what makes him beautiful right now.

Every crack and every crevice of vulnerability Jensen piles high with empty masculinity are exposed more than ever. And he doesn’t try to cover them. Doesn’t shy away from Misha in the backseat or slink out while he’s sleeping. He’s content to just lay on Misha like he’s his bed of sand on a warm summer’s day at the beach.

Misha knows the ocean will eventually be calling. Life the Great Tide will rise too high for them to stay. And being swallowed by the current seems a lot less appealing if it means the possibility of another day like this.

Because here, right now, he’s not an actor. Or a husband or father. He’s simply Jensen. Just like Misha is simply Misha.

“C’mon, you know that thing parents tell their daughters,” Misha says. “‘He’s only mean because he likes you’.”

“Fuck that, I would never tell JJ that. If a boy so much as _pokes_ her, I’m gonna let the good Lord take him off my hands.”

Misha chuckles, causing Jensen’s head to shake with it like a bobble head on a dashboard. Between the births of their children, the deaths of family members, the upsides of the conventions and the downsides of a Johnnie Walker, it’s definitely been a bumpy road for both of them.

Rome was their place to escape—no, not escape. Their haven. The one place they could find a moment to breathe amongst the ear-shattering noises of life.

Now they have the Impala. And fifteen acres of Dripping Springs.

“What? You think I wouldn’t do it?”

“Oh I know you would,” reassures Misha, grinning. It’s brief, due to the next sentence that comes out: “The part I’m baffled over is remembering our children are in grade school.”

Jensen huffs a laugh. Part of him hates being this close to Misha, only because, next to his wife, he knows him. Knows him like the various bodies, such as theirs, this waterfall has seen. He knows him physically, but more than that, emotionally. He can hear the hitch in Jensen’s laugh most people would overlook or not even hear. Because to everyone else, Jensen’s this lean, mean ass-kicking machine. Someone who isn’t afraid to take shit or give it. Someone who owns his own brewery and is a Hollywood success story. They don’t _want_ to hear him losing his composure, so they block it out. Gloss over it like a missing page in a book.

But Misha’s read him page-to-page. If something’s missing, he knows within seconds.

And right now, he knows what’s missing.

Misha can’t possibly gift lost time, so he does the next best thing: He holds him tighter before planting a seed of doubt inside his caramel hair. Jensen sighs into the kiss and reaches out for Misha’s left hand with his right. Their fingers intertwine with little effort.

Not that anything takes much effort when it comes to them. Especially when they fell in love.

“Mish?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when you self-proclaimed yourself the best cuddler in Pittsburgh a few years back?”

Jensen feels Misha’s eyebrows taper against his forehead. “Vaguely… how do _you_ remember that?”

Jensen’s limbs slide against Misha’s as he sits up and shrugs with a small smile. “You just reminded me.”

Misha’s grin isn’t given a proper burial when Jensen’s mouth sends him to his early grave.

 

 

As the sun sinks lower behind the rocks, leaving the two men engulfed in the blackest of blankets, they can’t help going against nature’s speedy clock: kissing a little slower, touching less firmly, moving to an original, synchronized ballad rather than an unrehearsed jumble of notes. They aren’t threatened by nightfall, nor do they fear the coming morning.

 

They have all the time in the world.


End file.
